A National Affair
by Still Framer
Summary: Morgan values civic duty. He also values the safety of his country and its residents. When a request from the highest level of the government entails a trip to the lesser-known state of Delmarva to look into a suspicious lack of communication at an outpost near Beach City, he obliges as any good citizen should. Unfortunately, there's far more happening than he expected to see.
1. Chapter 1

**A National Affair**

**Chapter 1: Simply Put, A Simple Assignment**

* * *

"Can you understand where I'm failing to see the logic here?"

There would be a few people who would assume that this was directed at air. Those people would be considered fools. For through the magnificent technology of "cell phones", one man found himself communicating over a large distance on speakerphone. Such was the state of the world's technological state. Mostly.

Said man was uncomfortably sitting in a bus that could be described as absolutely desolate. Other than the driver, he was the only person on it. He was a bit thankful for that, particularly because it was quiet, but it felt like a waste of public resources for this route to even exist. Then again, he was technically traveling into what was largely considered one of the most backwards states in the U.S.. He assumed that these largely unnecessary displays of "public transportation" were the result of over-funding by the legislator. Considering every state has a standard baseline for funding they received, whoever called the shots in Delmarva clearly had trouble finding ways to waste money in a generally under-populated region.

That was all beside the point however.

"_That's all beside the point_."

"Uh huh," came the man. "Logic was never the strong-suit of this administration, was it?"

The man, in attempt to not draw any attention to himself, was thoroughly disguised as a tourist. Not that it would help, all things considered. After all, who _willingly_ went this far out into the middle of nowhere?

"_As much as I want to comment, you know I can't. But the President_-"

"Who," he bluntly cut off with, "Still owes me ten bucks and a cigar, I might add."

"_Right. I'll put a requisition in for those. Eventually. But as I was saying, you were specifically requested to investigate this region._"

Taking out a badly made turkey sandwich, the tourist started eating away at his lunch, occasionally taking sips of some of his iced-tea. It was a meal for winners, to be sure.

"_From what we can tell, a research outpost has gone silent. As in, completely silent. No contact, no reports, absolutely nothing._"

He swallowed, wiping away some bread residue from his mouth before speaking, "Any satellite imagery? What information are we working with exactly?"

"_This is a grey area._"

"So no actual satellite help, then? Meaning I have to rely on actual _maps_ to get around?"

There was a short pause on the other end of the conversation, "_… Looks like it. As for info, we've basically got nothing. We know the outpost wasn't looking into anything amazing, but we're still a bit concerned over here. You'll have to figure everything out on your own for now."_

The man was half-tempted to click his tongue while eating, but that would be counter-productive. Instead, he settled for a shake of the head. Once he had finished the sandwich, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat back in the surprisingly well-maintained seat.

"I see. How long do you think I'm going to be stuck in this backwater for? Once I've figured out what's going on, of course."

"_It all depends on how fast you work. Get some intel, sort out the problem, make sure everything is going smooth, then you're done. Could take you a week, could take you a month._"

He slouched slightly, "That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear."

"_Oh boy, then you're _definitely_ not going to like what I have to say next._"

The man didn't bother saying anything in response, already knowing that whatever came next was very likely to just exasperate him.

"_Now, humor me for a second… You have a secondary objective. The President has, for some ungodly reason, stuck to the idea that there's some sort of extraterrestrial influence going on around this region. We need you to give us some peace of mind and determine if that 'theory' holds water. The President is… adamant that something's going on._"

He very much wanted to run a hand down his face at this point. While this was a far cry from any other favor he had done for someone, he was mostly on-board with scoping out a research facility and getting things back in order. That would be easy and at the very least somewhat productive. It wasn't as if government cover-ups didn't end up somewhere on his résumé. One thing he didn't like very much was occasionally working for an overly paranoid President that wanted to waste his time looking for ghosts and aliens, amongst other things. Quite frankly, it was unprofessional to ask him to do those sort of things.

The man cleared his throat, "Well… Alright, I suppose. I'll look into that." He was thoughtful for a moment, but his voice fell into a clearly irritated tone, "The President realizes I'm an ambassador, right?"

"_To Antarctica!_"

He rubbed at the stubble on his chin, eyes slightly narrowed, "Which is definitely not a country. I'm thinking that 'ambassador' is just a title for someone who goes to different places and solves problems."

"_Seeing as though you attended that trade mission that you and, like, only five other people survived, are you really that surprised the administration would want you on call?"_ It sounded genuinely curious, but the man's focus drifted slightly.

"Five? I remember six people other than me."

"_One committed suicide last summer. We thought she was overcoming the trauma from all that, but… Clearly, that wasn't the case. A real shame too._"

He knew the identity of the person in question, and while he did feel a shred of regret at the loss of such a bright mind, there wasn't much he could do to change what happened. That wasn't going to derail their conversation even further.

The seemingly endless of fields of some plant he didn't bother recognizing gave way to a much sandier, if flatter surrounding. "Yeah, a shame. I still think that giving a misleading title to someone isn't particularly nice."

"_Would you prefer 'Ambadassador' instead?_"

"Not really. I suppose I'll just have to try and get through all of this as fast as possible. How hard could it be to find this place?"

"_Saying things like that will probably make it harder. Anyway, you're near the closest town to the outpost. 'Beach City'. Last census says the population is definitely under a hundred heads. Quaint little place, it looks like."_

The so-called ambassador didn't like small towns. Beyond the clichés of places such as these harboring who-knows-what and being hotbeds for intriguing activity, they tended to be lack liveliness. The hustle and bustle of cities made sure to remind you that you were never lonely and opportunities existed everywhere. Or that's how he felt, at least.

"Thrilling," he replied with a lackluster tone. "I'll stick out like a festering thumb."

"_Excellent imagery. I'll fill you in as you go along, but for now, there's someone else I need to help." _There was a short pause on the other end. "… _Right. Err… You can handle it from here, probably. Good luck, 'Mr. Ambassador.'_"

The man snorted in response. The call ended, with its source stowed away.

If he was actually an ambassador, then he definitely wasn't the right man for the job. His time on that "trade mission" resulted in quite a bit of bloodshed, and foreign relations weren't exactly his thing. National security was more of his forte. That was the general area he honestly perceived as the best place for his skill set to be used. The fact it paid well didn't hurt much either.

He pushed that all to the back of his mind though. What point was there on focusing his thoughts on something he already knew? Instead, he directed his attention to the scenery.

There wasn't much to be said about the area. He leaned slightly toward the window and tried to spot any noteworthy landmarks.

Absolutely nothing was in sight.

The man sighed. While he wouldn't necessarily use the word "missions" to describe what he did for an occupation, but a proper word never really came to mind. Perhaps excursions? But somehow, it all tended to lead to some remote place that he definitely wouldn't think favorably of. A small village in northern Mexico, a logging community in Alberta, a mining town in the middle of Appalachia; now he could chalk "Beach City" onto the list of places he'd been that he knew he would be uncomfortable in before even arriving there.

He had to admit, it was a nice looking area though. Not much to see, but it felt as if it were the type of place that was perpetually in summer. Of course, it _was_ summer, so he could only guess how it would be any other time of the year. But as the approach narrowed, a sense of ease washed over him. What could possibly go wrong in such a remote place such as this?

Experience told him that assuming that was almost always directly responsible for unwanted irritation on his part. There was always something going on in a place like this. The true question was, what on Earth could the President know that made this town the target of his suspicions? Hordes of undead? Alien incursions? Extra-dimensional hyper-worms tunneling into our planet to swipe our resources beneath our noses? It was all (somewhat) plausible, each in their own way. But the lack of information left him blind. Anything could be waiting in Beach City, ready to gut his stomach, slice off his head, and lay eggs in his stomach lining.

He couldn't help but guffaw at such an absurd notion. The stomach was a terrible place to lay eggs, after all.

The bus driver overheard the laugh and called over, "Hey, vacationin'? You'll enjoy Beach City. Bit strange, but nice."

He didn't expect conversation, but maybe he could glean some important information from the uniformed fellow. The man in question looked friendly enough to ask questions to, so hopefully he could get an understanding of the locale before he ended up wasting a day ambling around. Plus, it was only courteous to acknowledge a fellow civil servant.

The man got up, brushing a few bread crumbs off of his khaki shorts. Taking his two tote bags with him, he headed over towards the front of the bus and took a seat just right of the driver. The bags were carefully put down.

"Not vacationing, per se," he responded amicably. "Someone asked me to check up on a few mutual friends."

"Oh? You from nearby?"

"No. I'm from Manhattan, actually."

The bus driver was taken aback, "_Really_? You must be a real friend if you're willin' to come all the way to Delmarva." He seemed to settle back into the observant slouch he maintained earlier. "Can't blame ya. Everyone loves the Sunray State."

The man quirked an eyebrow at that, "I think you mean Florida."

"Nope." The driver broke out into a friendly grin, "Florida's 'Sunshine'. We're 'Sunray'. Nice and quiet here too. No shootings or drug addicts. Just sun and fun."

He chuckled, "You sound like a spokesman for Delmarva with that sort of talk."

"Oh, I am! Well, I moonlight as one. It was my idea to make that our state slogan."

"No shootings or drug addicts?"

The driver laughed, giving a light punch to the other man's shoulder. "Hah! I like you, man. Definitely not what I thought a New Yorker would be like. But seriously, doesn't 'Just sun and fun' sound appealing?"

The ambassador affirmed with a nod, "It does. Hopefully I'll change my opinion of the beach after some time here."

"Good, good! You'll like this town. Hey, what did you say your name was?"

He considered giving a false name, but only briefly. After all, what would it matter? It wasn't as if he ever operated under any sort of secrecy. One might expect a certain level of discretion regarding matters of national security, but that tended to be woefully absent for the most part.

"Morgan. Pleased to meet you." Said man was tempted to offer a handshake. Of course, he was already pulling enough of his new acquaintance's attention away already. Multi-tasking beyond chit-chat might not end well.

The driver smiled, "Right back atcha, buddy! Name's Phil, by the way."

"Well Phil, I was wondering if I could ask a few questions about the area. Would you mind?"

"Of course not! Ask away!"

Morgan couldn't help but appreciate the other man's eagerness to assist him. It was refreshing.

"I'm probably going to be in town for a while. Is there a hotel nearby?"

Phil drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, humming lightly, "Hmm… I don't think so. Beach City's size and tourism doesn't really warrant that kinda investment."

It was a surprisingly concise answer, but it still left the ambassador without any place to stay. The bus crested over a hill just as he considered what to ask next, and the next sight made him pause entirely.

There was no doubt in his mind that the town was comparatively small. And yet, it was gorgeous. The early morning sun was casting all sorts of warm colors over the town, painting it as a picturesque haven away from the congestion of the rest of the world. The town itself was nestled in a dip between another hill and a large cliff, which seemed to have some strange formations, from the very little he could see of that side. But beside the abnormal geography, what he saw pleased him. It was shocking how quickly he found himself warming up to the idea of being there.

Still, he had to keep himself wary. Just for caution's sake.

"Wow," he muttered quietly.

"Yep." Morgan couldn't blame Phil for the look of pride he was wearing. It was deserved. "If you're looking for a place to stay, there's probably an apartment building somewhere. I'd tell you where if I knew, but…"

"I understand." Morgan shrugged halfheartedly, "I figured I would need to ask around to get around for the first few days. It shouldn't be too bad."

"That's the spirit. Who knows, maybe you'll like it enough here to stay." Phil followed up that statement with an ever-so-subtle smirk.

Morgan noticed, of course, but decided to not pursue that avenue of discussion. "We'll just have to wait and see for that. So," he took a sip of his iced tea, "What can you tell me about…"

Thus, the conversation continued. And absolutely nothing out of the ordinary took place.

Nothing at all.

* * *

While he wouldn't exactly refer that ten minutes or so with Phil the bus driver illuminating, it was at the very least enough to work with. After saying his goodbye's and watching the bus speed off to who-knows-where, Morgan found himself at a sidewalk with his two tote-bags and no sense of direction whatsoever. Phil's sense of the town seemed to be off somewhat, considering the street he was dropped off on wasn't even a bus stop, let alone large enough to accommodate a bus very effectively. The locals didn't seem to mind much, however. In fact, they seemed to just be enjoying their day.

"Hm."

It was a "hm" that was particularly neutral. One might even assume it was made without any given reason. But a good "hm" seemed to cut the errant thoughts off where they were and get him to focus on the task at hand. Which was finding somewhere to stay. Looking around, Morgan didn't see anything looked much like an apartment, but then realized that apartments obviously had no specific look to them that would convey they were in fact solely apartments.

That was another bogging thought.

Morgan lifted the tote-bags and began walking down the street, occasionally glancing one way or another to see if was anything worth his time. One such thing happened to be a large pastry casting down a watchful eye over the cement sidewalk, a true testament to the workmanship and dreams of collective humanity.

It was a big donut.

Coincidentally, the name of the store happened to be Big Donut.

Not so coincidentally, it looked like a start. There weren't many customers, so he could probably just sit for a few minutes, order some coffee, and then ask whoever was working where he could find lodging. That was a good plan. A sound one. One he was already doing at the moment, in fact.

As he entered, he tried to reassure himself that things would go fine and dandy for his hopefully short time staying in town. Pessimistic thoughts aside, it already left something of a good impression on him, as far as looks were considered important. The population, however, was a different story entirely…

Morgan, the impromptu ambassador and functionary, would get to see that first hand during his first day in Beach City. Stoicism and loyalty to one's position only went so far to prepare a person's assumptions for what they would soon be experiencing.

But really, how hard could this small town in the middle of absolutely nowhere be to handle? Morgan had single-handedly made himself a legend amongst his colleagues for what he had done in the past. This would be a cakewalk. A stroll in the park. Busy work at best.

And yet, he felt as though there was something wrong with that. His definition of "easy" was remarkably different from what others might think, but something at the back of his mind just kept nagging him. Was he simply setting himself up for a presumptuous upheaval at the hands or appendages of something massive that belied Beach City?

Quite frankly, he wasn't sure. He willingly went into this blind. Whatever he would have to face, if there was anything, was his responsibility to deal with, as he saw fit. If there were some inhuman abominations lurking around, he would exterminate them. If there were citizens in desperate need of his help, he would assist them. But first and foremost, he needed to fulfill his obligation and find that research outpost.

Strict regulations meant that any sort of silence basically amounted to a distress signal, and then investigation. He wasn't exactly worried, but it was strange. More often than not, getting no reports whatsoever implied there was some sort of disaster.

He would get on top of that as soon as he was settled in. A base of operations was typically necessary before conducting any sort of real reconnaissance. Then it was just a matter of hunting down the location of the outpost, making sure the staff was safe and everything working smoothly again, and then sit back and relax with an ice-cold beer.

Simple. It would all be so very simple. And if it wasn't, he would make it simple. It was as simple as that. Simply put, he wouldn't play the simpleton's game and simply go about this as simply as possible.

Morgan shook his head. He was overthinking things, enough to create that mess of mental notes. He pulled out his phone and went straight to the "Notes" app. As the sun edged its way higher over the horizon, he typed away, making a quick list of things to do, so he wouldn't get too sidetracked by the surprisingly distracting atmosphere of the town.

* * *

_Objectives:_

_1\. Get a temporary place to stay._

_1a. Find a pipe wrench._

_2\. Keep metabolism in check. _

_3\. Locate outpost._

_4\. Fix everything. _

_5\. Investigate possible 'extraterrestrial activity'._

_6\. Report findings._

_7\. Go home._

_8\. Enjoy some alcohol. _

_Notes: Pipe wrench has precedence over liquor. _

_ Cigars are helpful. _

_ Is it possible aliens have found Earth? Possible revenge plot?_

_ Need a car to get around. Public transportation is okay, but not preferable. _

_I feel something very strange in the pit of my stomach… Why do I feel homesick right now? _

_Nostalgia..? I've never been here before. So, why? _

_ I need to figure that out and get it out of the way so it doesn't interfere. _

_A wrench can decapitate a physical goddess, apparently. Worth noting in case I run into any trouble. Definitely something to keep in mind._

* * *

Morgan simply put his thoughts down as they came. He didn't expect introspection or the unknown emotion that cropped up because of it. It was pushed to the back of his mind. There would be time for that later.

For now, he needed two things: information and coffee. And as he stood in front of Big Donut, it became obvious that he could at least get one of those at that moment.

So he got to it, as he always did. It was a mentality that was needed of him in this fantastically peculiar world. A world most certainly worth the effort to defend against threats. That was an indisputable truth. A fact that, even if he didn't know yet, was shared by some in Beach City.

In reality, Morgan had an incorrect assumption of what he was getting into. And it would cost him dearly.

* * *

A/N:

Hmm, I don't have anything to say right now. I'll admit I probably should have taken the time to proofread and edit the hell out of this, but it's late and I'd rather sit down and kill things in Dark Souls 2 right about now. Maybe I'll have something better to say next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**A National Affair**

**Chapter 2: Commentaries on Economics, Industry, and Dr. Pepper  
**

* * *

"_So, we checked up on that planet. Total collapse of the ecology._"

Morgan, leaning against a wall in his new apartment, whistled in slight shock, but said nothing in response. After he had met a man with the most interesting hair imaginable, he was informed that there were in fact a few empty apartments on one of the streets overlooking the beach. It was surprisingly cheap to rent, but it wasn't as if that mattered. Morgan's position paid very well. A few hundred dollars every month was hardly scratching anything close to the surface of his bank account. Undertaking dangerous work was lucrative.

As for the apartment, it wasn't anything to brag about, but it was definitely worth the money. It was a mix between cozy and spacious, designed to resemble the beach homes of the Mid-Atlantic States. Chesapeake-colonial was certainly one of his favorite styles of architecture, not that he knew much about the subject to form a defensible opinion. Still, with the white boards and large windows, he felt vaguely at home. It was nice to just rest against the window sill, sipping coffee as he made conversation.

"_Yeah. Mind answering a question?_"

Morgan knocked back some more of the beverage, which was brewed quite well. He would have to give that cashier his compliments the next time he entered Big Donut.

"What's the question?"

"_In one sentence, can you explain what happened over there?"_

"Alright, Rufus, if you really want to know." Morgan put down his coffee and thought it over for a moment. "Hmm… Okay, think of it like this. You're in an environment that looks absolutely otherworldly and everything in it tries to kill once they've seen you. Everything."

"_Not sure how I feel about that. There's nothing alive there that isn't microscopic."_

"Killing their leader did that, it looks like. She must have kept everything balanced. Either way, we could have escaped once we got the ship working again, but I went after her. You know the rest."

"_Let's change the subject. This totally killed my mood." _The sound of papers being shuffled around could be heard. "_Progress so far?"_

Morgan raised a brow, "It's been less than an hour since we last talked. How much did you expect me to get done in that amount of time?"

"_At the very least find a map. How hard could that be?"_

He clicked his tongue, "I'll find it, alright? You don't need to worry."

It was true. There wasn't much of a reason for Rufus, his contact to the administration, to doubt his ability, let alone worry about getting everything under control. Morgan was capable. All of his fellow bureaucrats knew that well enough.

"_Good. I'll leave you to it. Call me if anything comes up."_

"Got it."

With that, Morgan hung up. He switched the phone with his coffee cup and sat there in silence, alternating between the lukewarm drink and the Honduran cigar. It had a fine taste. Enough so that he was willing to very briefly swirl the smoke in his mouth before letting it out. Satisfied, Morgan relaxed a bit more. The cap of the cigar was flicked out the window and into a bush.

"Hey! Watch where you throw those things, man!"

Morgan's confusion lasted about a second following that. He looked over the window sill and saw someone in the bushes, digging around apparently. It made sense that he didn't notice the young man before, what with the house being a few feet above the land, likely to prevent flooding. Still, Morgan found it a bit strange to have someone digging on property he was renting.

"What are you doing?" he asked the dreadlocked stranger. Or, at least he assumed they were dreadlocks. It was hard to tell, but there was definitely a similarity in terms of looks with that of the man who helped him find the apartment.

"_What_ does it look like? I'm excavating for fossils." The smattering of dirt on the young man at least confirmed the 'excavating' part.

"Uh huh… And why are you doing this in front of my window? Can't you take this somewhere else?" It then occurred to Morgan that he wasn't in the least bit interested in interfering. Better to not be dragged into something he didn't want to be involved in. "Actually, do what you want."

The young man looked offended. His sputtering certainly didn't help paint a different picture. Just as it seemed he was about to start an argument, Morgan preemptively shut the window, and then lowered the blinds. It was incredibly rude, but the last thing the operator wanted was to be pulled into a conversation with someone trying to discuss the validity of "excavating" other people's property with a plastic shovel for "fossils". If that was what he was looking for, there were plenty in the form of sea shells on the beach.

Morgan left the coffee at the kitchen counter, which coincidentally shared space with the living room. He ignored the rapping at the window and promptly started unloading his duffel bags. Most of what was inside them were uninteresting things such as clothes and other daily necessities. However, stowed away in one was the satchel with his standard equipment for the lengthy trips and dangerous situations he would inevitably end up in.

Carefully, Morgan pulled it out and set it to the side. He would get to it soon enough. For now, he took the time to sort through his other belongings and putting them in the appropriate places. Roughly five minutes later, he was back in the living room and pulling back the straps of the satchel. The pieces of equipment were removed one by one until the brown sack was emptied. Laying it out in front of him, he did an assessment of what he had.

First and foremost was his primary form of self-defense against non-human aggressors: a Sig Sauer P320 accompanied with mostly armor-piercing ammunition. In the majority of cases, it was likely that he would need the extra penetration to cut down whatever was trying to remove and ingest his face. Though, just in case, he kept several clips of hollow-points for whatever else might attack him. The likeliness that he would need them was minor, but it was definitely still an area worth covering regardless. Morgan made sure the safety was on, slipped it between the waist of his khaki shorts and his back, and then let his polo drop to cover it from sight. It was, of course, an incredibly bad idea to keep a gun anywhere but its holster, but that would be far too obvious.

Scaring the locals by having a visible handgun would be terrible, obviously.

Next was a single brass knuckle, for the right hand. Morgan, for what it was worth, loathed using the standard-issue stunrods and almost always opted for something would let him deliver direct blows. Blunt objects were preferable over anything else that wasn't a firearm, but a brass knuckle was concealable and non-lethal. As such, it made a decent backup weapon. He dropped it into his right pocket.

There were several other accoutrements that he would leave behind. However, one object in particular was quite literally his most important piece of equipment. It had saved his life countless times and prevented him from experiencing severe strife on numerous occasions. This magnificent object was…

"How did my PDA get scratched?" Morgan wondered aloud.

It was negligible little mark, but he didn't recall it getting damaged anytime recently. Shrugging, he took a hold of the PDA and made sure it was up to date. It would be necessary to get coverage from a recon satellite to make the full use of it, but as it was, it was invaluable regardless. Information was almost always a better defense than actual weaponry. Ironically, given the strong composition of the PDA, it could double as a bludgeoning tool for the brave soul that didn't mind running the risk of a hand cramp. Morgan learned that personally in one incident involving an insane woman who claimed to be the reincarnation of Frederick the Great. Thankfully, having an incredibly durable piece of technology battered against her temple was enough to incapacitate her and provide an informative lesson to Morgan.

The bureaucrat sighed through his nose. He knew he was getting sidetracked again. That wasn't very productive.

It was imperative to find the outpost as soon as possible. Wasting time wasn't a luxury the staff could afford. While he hoped that wasn't the case, it probably was. With that mind, Morgan gave a quick glance around the apartment. Satisfied, he left and headed in the direction of what he hoped was the general area for stores in Beach City.

* * *

There were times where retrospectively we come to realize that certain things done beforehand would make the present situation easier. Sometimes, we think upon these inactions with regret or anger, and other times, we think nothing of it at all.

For Morgan, it was becoming quite clear that this was his state of affairs currently. Though he had only been informed about this operation only a day or so in advance, it wasn't as if that wasn't enough prep time to take care of necessities. Of course, he had been under the impression that he was going to be provided with actual satellite support. To the inexperienced, that might seem comparatively miniscule to the possibility of suffering a gruesome death on the job, and yet, it was unquestionably one of the most important factors to successfully completing any assignment.

Knowledge of the terrain was good to know. Being able to view all of it from an all-seeing, objective viewpoint was far more useful. While Morgan lacked the latter, he assumed the former would at least serve as a backup in the form of maps.

Coincidentally, not a single store in Beach City had any maps of the area. Which was terrible. Truthfully, a part of him found it somewhere between outrageous and nonsensical.

"Looking for something, sir?"

It was the cashier, who had been watching him go through the aisles of the small convenience store for the past ten minutes with nothing to show for it.

Morgan tried not to sound too hopeful with his next question.

"I don't suppose you sell tourist maps here, do you?" She shook her head. "I didn't think so. Ah well."

With that, he went over to one of the fridges and looked for something to drink. Interestingly, it was filled with brands of beverages he had never even heard before. Sodas, iced-teas, juices; they were all seemingly exclusive from the rest of the United States. Morgan pulled out a bottle of something called "Sassy Pearl &amp; Ella's Softest Sip", which was apparently a massive bastardisation of a sarsaparilla. He found it a bit laughable. Flipping it around, the functionary noticed something printed near the bottom in bold lettering:

"**PROUDLY MADE IN THE STATE OF DELMARVA**"

Proud of what, was the question. Putting it back, Morgan kept looking until he finally found something that was actually recognizable. By some mysterious benefactor's glorious decision, there were a few cans of Dr. Pepper nestled far to the left. Grabbing one, he shut the door and made his way to the counter.

The cashier, a young woman in her late teens he assumed, looked up from the magazine she was reading as he came near. She noticed the can in his hand and smiled.

"You _are_ a tourist." It was blunt, though not impolite.

Morgan's lips curled upwards ever so slightly, "Is it that obvious?"

"Oh, definitely. I'm not just saying that because of the question about the maps either." She nudged her head towards the drink. "You're the first person to pick one of those up in months."

"What? A Dr. Pepper?" he asked, not entirely sure what she meant.

"Yeah! Normally, everyone gets the local stuff. That's how I know you're from out of town."

"Other than the fact you've never seen me before in a small town like this?" Morgan pointed out.

"Yup," she replied, nodding in agreement. "That'll be one dollar, by the way."

Said dollar was pulled out of his wallet and handed to the cashier, who promptly stared at it. Morgan wasn't sure as to why a U.S. dollar was interesting enough to actual spare a glance at, considering she was a citizen, but didn't question it. Until there was a discovery so shocking, so mind-blowing, that he just had to.

"Wow, I've never seen one of these in real-life before." She held it up to the light, turning it back and forth. "Sorta looks like the money we use, but sorta not, y'know?"

Morgan vaguely recalled the mention of Delmarva, one of the key states to turn the tide of the Civil War, having an interesting history regarding its currency. Somehow, it was able to haggle for autonomy from the U.S. dollar in return for siding with the Union. At least, that was how Morgan heard it went. Either way, the result was economic stagnation within the state for over a century. There wasn't much need for Delmarva products outside of the eastern seaboard, not that there was much in terms of industrialization to begin with. Yet, the citizens of the state didn't seem to mind all that much, by the looks of it.

It made Morgan wonder, though. What value did a Delmarva dollar have in relation to its U.S.-issued cousin? He had an inkling that the negotiations must have had something involving artificial inflation of their currency to match that of the regular dollar. Morgan was far from an economic theorist, but the idea seemed somewhat possible from his perspective. After all, China was doing something similar to keep their own products competitive within the U.S. market. Couldn't it be possible that one of Delmarva's governors had done the same thing at some point?

Of course, this was all completely unnecessary and unneeded speculation on his part. It wasn't as if anyone wanted to hear about the economics of _Delmarva_ of all places, let alone any at all. People liked action and a compelling story. Theories on currency tended to not have that, save for a few cases Morgan could remember quite vividly.

"Uh, sir?"

Morgan blinked, not realizing that he had spaced out mid-conversation with the cashier, "Hmm?"

She was clearly concerned, which surprised him. "Are you alright? You kinda just stopped talking for a second there."

He chuckled, giving an apologetic shake of the head, "Sorry about that. Is my money good here?"

Shrugging, she put it in the register without a fuss, "Dunno. There can't be a lot of difference, right?"

Oh, there was a world of differences. Morgan just didn't want to be the person hassled into sorting them out.

Instead, he opted to simply thank her and leave the store with his Dr. Pepper in hand. It seemed like finding any sort of direction was eluding him on purpose. Morgan started considering his options.

By this point, he spent a good chunk of daylight on searching the town for any sort of geographical information. It was essentially futile, from what he figured. Though, the term "geographical" seemed to resonate with him. He hummed, raising a curled finger to his mouth as he thought on it.

Technically, it was required by all states to provide appropriate depictions of their terrain, though how was also technically very broad. Mineral surveys might help. If he remembered right, those usually included maps to determine profitable mining locations. Morgan had to recognize that the region probably wasn't ripe with coal or any other money-making opportunities underground, but surely there was _some_ sort of inquiries going back and forth somewhere.

He just had to find them, then use them. Morgan remembered seeing a library that could possibly have something hidden away. The building was initially dismissed as a possibility almost immediately, mainly because he wasn't very keen on digging through countless records and archives to get any significant leads. It didn't look as though he had much of a choice at this point, however.

Morgan clicked his tongue. Things were already off to a subpar start. It wasn't particularly reassuring to be forced to assemble an entire mission from scratch. Thankfully, he had the option of contacting headquarters for any assistance he might need. Morgan preferred not to resort to that due to it tying up public resources, but time was ticking by.

The library was likely closed by now, so he would have to wait until tomorrow to get anything useful from there. Morgan pulled out his phone and hit a number on the speed-dial. "Calling Rufus" came up on the screen.

He kept walking as it rang, moving in a casual stroll down the street with drink in hand. There didn't seem to be much going on at the moment.

The ringing stopped, followed shortly after with: "_This is Rufus._"

Morgan stared out at the dimming sky, plans already formulating in his mind.

"… I'm making a few requisitions."

"_I already put in the one for the cigar_," Rufus replied irritably. Morgan couldn't blame him. It was probably a long day at the office, after all.

"Don't worry about that one," he assured him. "I have something else in mind."

Just as he predicted, there was the sound papers moving around and a pen clicking. Rufus was going to write all of this down, thankfully.

"I'm going to need a car as soon as possible. I'd look around over here, but-"

"_Trust me, I know. Delmarva cars are piles of shit_," his contact explained. "_I'll find you something. What else do you need?_"

Morgan squinted, eyes directed at the just barely visible stars in the dimming sky, "Right. I need you to get your hands on a recon satellite by tomorrow morning…"

* * *

_Many hours later…_

* * *

Morgan was not a heavy sleeper. It was, unfortunately, a developed trait. Barely waking up in time to evade death on quite a few occasions will do that to a person. Even so, something seemed to pressure him, keeping him from waking up and reacting.

It wasn't easy to quell the fight or flight response in a human being. Morgan's own psyche was geared towards "fight".

Blinking, the man fought the unnatural sluggishness that hindered him. An eerie green light was shining into his eyes, nearly blinding him as something crawled on his abdomen and towards his face.

Reflexes acting in lieu of conscious decision, Morgan backhanded whatever it was that was nearing him. It was sent sprawling to the floor with a crash.

"What the…"

It was a strange, mechanical-looking creature, somewhat like a spider in shape. Morgan watched it right itself while his right hand reached under his pillow for his Sig Sauer.

In that next moment, it leaped.

Morgan reacted.

* * *

A/N:

Just realized how many mistakes I made in that first chapter. I looked through this one for errors, but I can't be sure I got them all. I'll reread the first chapter and fix things up as I see them.

As for when this story takes places, I haven't really decided yet. I was intentionally making it as ambiguous as possible, but yes, it does involve the Warship. It also involves some things left behind by the Gems, problems native to Earth without their interference, Gem experimentation on humans, and some serious conspiracies going on.

That's all I'll say about that. Better I don't give away info on stuff that I may just cut out entirely.

Also, if it isn't obvious by this chapter, this story isn't going to really deviate from the perspective of an outsider to the whole history of the Crystal Gems and what they've been doing. It'll go into the exploration of the relics, ruins, technology, etc., but through the eyes of a guy who's really only trying to investigate how any of this came to be. And there is a lot of stuff to look into. It's his civic duty to make sure none of this poses any real threat to his country. But you already know that.

Anyway, hope you liked the chapter. Still trying to get a feel for where I'm going to take this, so bear with me on any mistakes I might make in terms of plot holes or canonicity.


	3. Chapter 3

**A National Affair**

**Chapter 3: On Matters Related to Non-Erotic Strangulation, Poor Vehicle Maintenance, and Document Theft  
**

* * *

Amongst the number of things he didn't like, Morgan especially didn't appreciate being garroted. Having something coiled around your neck and then yanked with enough force to remove any notions of breathing was a tad discomforting. Worse, it left undeniably ugly marks on one's neck. How exactly did one go about explaining that they did not, in fact, have a strangulation fetish and was merely being choked to death by a dangling appendage from a robotic spider with a seemingly floating body?

Thankfully, it wasn't a conversation Morgan was going to have any time soon. Even if a turtleneck could solve that problem, his skin was a bit tougher and a bit more resistant to trauma than the average person. He didn't even need to moisturize. That being said, the marks of strangulation were gone within twenty minutes of being made by whatever the contraption was.

The technology for drone-like robots seeking out targets and assassinating them existed, as he knew firsthand, but this thing was something else entirely. By some unknown means, its body floated just a little above the legs, which drop-kicked particularly hard.

Morgan rubbed his jaw, trying to work out any kinks it may have had.

The robot was a bland, silvery color without any sort of markings, but a "mouth" of sorts at the bottom that exuded a sickly green light from somewhere within. The same mouth deployed a prehensile appendage against him that, like its legs, hit harder than he thought it would. The legs themselves were equally odd, using a form of locomotion that involved sliding parts. Or maybe he only assumed that. Wrestling it in the dark until he managed to break it didn't leave him much time to get a good look at something as minor as its legs.

He slouched slightly, visibly tired from the lack of sleep.

Morgan couldn't even muster the emotion to be irritated at this point. He was awoken at four, with four hours of sleep, and it was now nearing five in the morning. Wrestling this thing into submission and cracking open its casing had taken the better part of the last hour, unfortunately. He hadn't fired any bullets in the struggle, if only to conserve them. They probably wouldn't have been effective against such a quick-moving target with a deflective shell, especially at close-quarters. However, it was worth noting that said shell was completely hollow, which brought up more questions than answers.

Still, it was now a broken pile of tubes and a ruined sphere. It lied there on the ground with a greenish splatter seeping from somewhere, dead as could be. At least, he hoped that was the case. It was hard to tell. At least his PDA was fine, despite it gaining a hardly visible scratch on it. Considering that it was used to smash open what it did, he considered the minor mark a success.

Morgan leaned down, grabbing the crippled robot by its newly-made gash. There was a faint sound once his fingers curled into its insides to gain a grip.

"What..?"

Though it was likely that he was mistaken, it almost sounded as if whatever insidious thing he was holding was now whimpering in his hand. Curious, Morgan turned it, looking it over closely. Though the outline was hardly noticeable, there appeared to be a compartment embedded into the casing.

Using his free hand, he pushed against the bottom part of it, making sure to keep his other where he assumed it would the compartment would be on the inside. The cover turned, though not without a notable resistance against his increasing pressure. An eye became visible as the cover flipped around. It didn't blink, but that wasn't where Morgan's attention was directed.

He was looking inside. The hollowed sphere's exterior was maybe only an inch or so thick, but the size of the cover as it flipped would need far greater space to reveal the eye.

And yet, it wasn't there. Morgan brought the crack closer and looked in. There was no difference whatsoever from when he first checked.

Whatever the little killer truly was, the technology it used was beyond anything he had seen applied to robots before. He could argue that the floating limbs were some sort of magnetic manipulation, but having an exterior shell separate from an empty interior? It didn't seem possible in the slightest. As absurd as it was, he knew that it could come in handy.

If there was one thing that governmental research consistently excelled at, it was reverse-engineering technology. That was not opinion, but entirely fact. The American government, for what it was worth, absolutely fell in love with dual-use technology roughly around the same time World War I had begun. "What it was worth", however, was somewhere in the trillions, if one really wanted an idea of how lucrative it was to weaponize the mundane and convert armaments into something that cooked hotdogs. After all, research grants were expensive, but tended to pay for themselves anyway. Why not direct a little effort into capitalizing on what you made for the civilian market?

Morgan could only imagine what odd things could be learned and created from his new prisoner. As if sensing his intent, it seemed to shake slightly. The legs lying on the floor attempted to weakly pull themselves up to the raised body, but failed to move an inch off of the white planks of wood.

Taking the opportunity presented to him, the bureaucrat started searching around the apartment for anything that could effectively be used for containment. About five minutes later, he returned with a small dog kennel that was apparently left behind by the last person who rented the apartment. There were other items as well, but nothing significant enough that deserved a mention. Their dog must have been one of the shorter breeds, though. And thankfully, there weren't any fecal stains or some other displeasing little surprise lying about for who knows how long.

Morgan rolled the sphere in and dropped the legs alongside it before shutting the hatch and locking it. The legs weren't thin enough to get through the grate of the door, thankfully. He didn't know what it was capable of other than what he had seen so far, but it was best to minimize its mobility in every way possible. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything heavy enough use for a weight on the kennel itself. Seeing as though the thing was just about dead though, it might not be necessary.

The functionary took a few pictures of it with his phone while it was stationary and put them into a folder. They were then sent in an email as a general message to his colleagues, with the actual message being: "_Just attacked by this little guy. Anyone seen anything like it before? Thoughts/Comments?_"

With that, he sent it. Knowing that it was only five in the morning, Morgan didn't expect any replies back. Yet, surprisingly, one did come. It was from an agent on loan to Moscow, who had apparently shown to the members of the Russian bureaucracy.

In terms of national security, it wasn't uncommon to share information with those from other governments, and if Morgan had known said agent was even there, he would have at the very least expected a reaction by a national from there. Several reactions were apparently condensed into one message as a response.

The American's reply was: "_I've never seen anything like that. It doesn't look like a toy either, with that craftsmanship. The boys over here are as – ahem – 'flabbergasted' by it as much as I am. Sorry we couldn't be much help, Morgan._"

There was an explanation for this cooperation.

In practice, modern governments were significantly different beyond what their surface would indicate. While each currently existing nation was undoubtedly polluted with those seeking collusion and their own benefit, there was always, guaranteed, those who were utterly loyal to their country before all else.

Even the current administration of whatever example you wished to use had only so much influence on these dutiful citizens. These members of society prioritized a country's safety before personal ambition, whether from themselves or anyone else occupying a federal position. Needless to say, this led to unparalleled degrees of conflict from within these governments, and it wasn't entirely unheard of for there to be "clean-ups" and "housekeeping".

This is what it made it possible for two countries that had a decades-long history of rivalry to cooperate on the level that agents were willingly passed about and offered as help in times of need. It was the ultimate obligation to preserving society's structure that greased the wheels, creating an interesting duality that probably wouldn't make even a bit of sense to the average citizen anywhere.

After all, it seemed absurd that countries would willingly allow possible breaches in national security through such actions. This was the view of the clueless within and outside of the government. Their skepticism only made it easier to capitalize on their blindness to the true horrors that threatened humanity as a whole.

As Morgan ruminated on that, he sat down in a nearby armchair.

So, the small town did have some secrets after all. Either they had some clandestine operations going on, or someone wasn't very keen on him being there. Perhaps something, and not a person. There was no way to know just yet, though whoever sent the robot clearly had the resources to create such an advanced machine.

Most people would likely be reeling from the fact that something deliberately attempted to end their life, but Morgan just sat there, thinking. It was still very early in the day and he doubted anyone would know about what he just captured. If he hadn't seen anything like it before, chances were, no one had. He would need to look into where this thing came from after he had found the location of the facility.

Morgan stood and went over to the dresser. The day was already starting and he had his doubts that sleep would come back to him. Instead, he would look around town some more. Clearly, there was more to it than meets the eye.

Now, it was only a matter of keeping his eyes open, and knowing what to look for.

* * *

People never disappear. People do not simply vanish without a trace for no discernable reason. People prefer to remain where they are, amongst their own.

So why, Morgan wondered, was there a very large amount of "missing-persons" reports within Delmarva over the course of the past century? Why did whole towns suddenly become empty during the recent decade? And just as importantly, why didn't he know about this? Or anyone he worked with, for that matter? It made no sense.

Morgan had scoured the archives of the local library for several hours. If it was legal to, he would have been chain-smoking cigars all the while. He settled for downing cup after cup of coffee as each strange coincidence revealed itself. Newspapers dating back to 1902 were the first to bring up cases of people not turning up. There were quite a few surges of townsfolk going missing all over the region, but somehow, the information never left Delmarva. The federal government wasn't able to get involved due to not knowing there was a problem in the first place.

He flipped the paper around, glancing at the obituaries briefly before skimming around other newspapers in the archive. One or two people no longer existing amongst their fellow citizens was one thing, but an actual population? It was disturbing. More so, it was absolutely unheard of. Thankfully, Morgan wasn't obligated to report his findings until he completed his assignment, which gave him ample time to conduct his investigation undisturbed. Solving the disappearances was definitely important, but his primary objective was sorting out the problem at the outpost. Which, hopefully, would be very soon.

Morgan decided to set aside the newspapers for now. He would be taking all of them without the library's consent, of course, but they could wait. Standing, the man started sorting through the rest of the archives.

A very significant portion of the sections had nothing of interest. He found a few unmarked ones and combed through them until some plastic tubes were dug out from the far back. Hoisting them, Morgan checked them for any indication as to what they were. It was a fair assumption that they were maps given these tubes were almost exclusively used for them, but there was an equal chance of them being blueprints of town buildings.

He hoped that wasn't the case. Those would be just about useless to him.

"Let's see what we have," Morgan muttered, popping off the cap of one of the tubes.

Lo and behold, it was in fact a map. A weather map from decades ago, but still a map. Perhaps Beach City had a dedicated weather station at some point. It didn't really matter, now that he had something to work with.

Right as he was about to search the rest, his phone vibrated.

"_I think you're going to like what we got you._" It was from Rufus, who was referencing Morgan's need for transportation, apparently. "_Not sure how well it'll help you blend in, but it'll drive you around._"

Morgan didn't know what to make of that. He realized he never specified a vehicle brand or type, which likely would have been a good idea. The bureaucrat leaned against a table and texted back, asking where the car was and if it was already dropped off.

"_We paid some yokel to park it near you. Nothing's pinned on the map yet, so I have no idea what these buildings are. Good luck._"

Pocketing his phone, Morgan looked further down the room and spotted an exit. Taking a random encyclopedia with him, he propped the book between the door and wall to make sure it would stay open. With it secure, he headed up to street level and spotted something that seemed particularly out of place.

The man chuckled, shaking his head. While it wasn't what he had in mind, he wasn't going to complain.

It was an old Cadillac, which, given by its state, was thoroughly used by its last owners. Or maybe "owners", considering it had some very noticeable bullet holes in assorted spots around its body. What an odd choice of a car.

Morgan knew it was picked for a reason, if sheer tackiness wasn't already the prime one. Rufus had to get his kicks somewhere, after all.

He headed over to the Cadillac and leaned into the open window. The keys were in the ignition. While the car didn't look that bad at first glance, it only took him about a second to notice a vomit stain in the passenger seat and splatters of dried blood embedded into the ceiling. That was only what he saw within that second, too.

Well, at least it had character. But that was about it. It was even losing the stuffing in the seats. Would there be a bloody clump of someone's scalp nestled between his seat and the divider? Perhaps a used needle that had seen countless veins and overdoses? There was no way to be sure. That was simply a part of the not-so-mysterious lack of charm that this car radiated.

It would still get the job done though, and that was enough.

Getting in, he started it and drove it closer to the library, positioning it near the back entrance so he could minimize the distance of the trips to the archive and back.

It was a tedious process to move all of those documents, but necessary. So, he dutifully got to it.

What Morgan failed to notice, however, was that someone was sneaking near the accumulated items he was "borrowing". By the time he realized that a good number of newspapers and maps were missing, it was already too late.

* * *

"_So, someone stole half of the stuff you were about to steal? Am I hearing that right?_"

That was right, more or less.

Morgan adjusted his shirt's collar, removing a crease, "You're hearing right. Whoever it was, they timed it perfectly. Most of those newspapers are gone now. I still have a few maps, but…"

"_Newspapers? What the hell did you need those for?_" Rufus questioned, not understanding what Morgan would want with them.

"Rufus, I've found something _crazy_. Delmarva, as a state, matches some of the biggest states for persons kidnapped."

There was a short silence.

"… _Which, in relation to state population, is a noticeable chunk. Are you sure about this?_"

Morgan paced his kitchen-living-room, "Positive." His mind was reeling at the possibilities, trying to discern some sort of cause. "It's impossible these are just some regular kidnappings. That never happens to this degree, in a state like this."

"_So what are you thinking? They're all connected?_"

"Not necessarily connected," Morgan admitted. "But here's the kicker: Entire _towns_ have gone missing."

"_Wait, _what_!? Seriously?_"

"Not a single person left in them. The newspapers eventually just stopped mentioning the incidents altogether. It could still be happening, for all we know."

"_Well,_" Morgan could almost hear a smirk, "_technically, the people disappeared, not the towns._"

The man snorted in amusement but continued the topic, "Semantics aside, this is pretty troubling. Should I look into this too?"

"_I'd say so. I won't bring it up to everyone else just yet, though. Better to give you some time to work undercover._"

Good, so they were on the same page then.

"_But the outpost is your first concern, Morgan. You have a car now, and you'll be getting satellite access within the hour. Those maps will probably be useless at this point, so do what you want with them." _Rufus sighed wearily, loudly thrumming his fingers against the desk he was currently occupying. "_Morgan, man, you got the means, now make it happen. Can you get there and scope it out today?_"

Morgan, standing at the kitchen counter over several of the maps, paused at that. It sounded strained, if anything. The man on the other end of the phone was a dear friend, one who had kept him sane in the most surreal of situations, and one who spared no expense in keeping him alive. There was a special relationship between an operator and their liaison. Morgan knew when something was wrong.

Cautiously, he asked, "Is this something personal, Rufus? Or should I not ask?"

"_I… How do I put this… It's nothing personal, per se, but I'm starting to get really anxious. We all are. Security over there was made up of former members of the military. They aren't trained to handle non-human threats. They don't have our experience."_

Morgan understood the concern. The U.S. military was strictly reserved for fighting wars against other humans, not the sort of beings that would melt your brain and season it with fine herbs. So, as not only as a friend, but a partner, Morgan obliged.

"Don't worry; I'll try to sort this out as fast as I can. I'm going to get some supplies together and head out soon."

The agent felt a bit off-kilter from that conversation. Eyes wandering now, they spotted the little killer that he had captured earlier. Resoundingly, there was no knowledge of it. Not a single person knew about what it was or who created it, let alone the purpose it served beyond asphyxiation. Though, it was still dead, or mostly dead. The mobile sphere hadn't moved at all since he threw it into the kennel, but that wasn't a tangible reason to let his guard down. If anything, it was an indication to be more alert.

Unfortunately, he wasn't in a position to keep an eye on it. It wasn't as if there was anything valuable that would be at risk with him gone again. Though, he could always take it with him.

Perhaps he would do that.

"Rufus, I'll call you when I get there. I'm going to get ready."

"_Got it. Play it safe._"

With that, the call ended.

It took a few minutes, but Morgan gathered what he deemed necessary, lifted up the kennel, and left the apartment. The man took out his PDA for a brief moment as he shut the door, and glanced at the now-revealing image of the region. The process of taking so many images, breaking them down into detailed stills, and then seamlessly stringing them all together into a perfect representation of an entire part of the world was time-consuming.

Thankfully, the piece of hardware was advanced enough to do it for him, with the satellite far above him working fast to smooth everything over. Finding the outpost would be much easier with both attempting to locate it rather than him visiting places he would personally designate as good locations for an entire facility. For now, he just needed to drive.

It went without saying that Morgan had a bad feeling about all of this, now that he had uncovered the ignored history of Delmarva. At this point, he felt as though that there was already massive damage done to the outpost, with very few of the staff alive, if any at all.

That was not pessimism. In this world, that was merely a pragmatic assumption. As terrible as it was acknowledge, such a situation was entirely possible.

Morgan was resolute in his obligation, though. He knew what was expected of him and he would fulfill his duty to the best of his ability. A part of him desperately hoped that that wouldn't be necessary, that everyone was safe and the silence was simply a result of a communication malfunction.

But a broken com-array wouldn't prevent reports as long as this had gone on for. Engineers worked quickly. It was something that lasted maybe six to twelve hours, not days on end. He would find out for himself what happened soon enough.

Morgan just wanted there to be something or someone left to save.

A man tires of being too late, too often, after all.

* * *

A/N: Man, these titles are getting more ridiculous each time. I don't why I keep doing it.

We're going to be getting into the meatier chapters soon. You know, the ones with actual stuff going on in it. As for the history of the U.S. (and the rest of the world), I'm going to keep historical events the same, with the same outcomes. Kinda like if everything that has happened on Earth so far happened, but there just so happened to be otherworldly beings interspersed here and there.

At least, that's what I'm thinking so far. Who knows, it might change. Depends on whether the story deviates from the original plotline I thought up. We'll see.

That's all I have to say for now, I guess. Though, I should probably mention that coloration of robots is an interesting thing. You never know who they might be working for. Just saying.


	4. Chapter 4

**A National Affair**

**Chapter 4: Eyes in the Dust  
**

* * *

Morgan had found the facility after only an hour of driving, only to stumble upon a smashed in gate and massive craters and crevices spotting the landscape surrounding the buildings. Said building were likely built as a cover for the underground portion of the outpost, and Morgan didn't currently know the state of affairs for that portion that well. Still though, he bypassed all of the geological obstacles and quietly drove up to the facility.

It had been obvious from the get-go that a battle took place. Beyond the fact that the scenery and infrastructure had been torn apart, the numerous bodies littering the area gave him an idea of what happened. The security team, clad in navy-blue fatigues and body armor, had suffered what initially seemed to be complete annihilation. Amongst the debris had been quite a few displaced limbs, if that was sufficient enough to go by. None of them were moving, let alone breathing, either.

That was what Morgan initially thought. It became obvious that something unresolved was currently in the process of _being_ resolved by the time he navigated his way to the buildings themselves. Along the way, he passed proof that the security team at least managed to kill a few of the attackers, who by any degree, were definitely not human. Not any more, at least.

While Morgan held a broad understanding of many things in the world, his specializations tended to involve human relations, and not any of the hard sciences. Without that, he couldn't properly identity what he was looking at. He had seen them before, somewhere far, far from here, but he never thought they would surface again.

They were humanoid, or rather, had been at some point, given their structure. But most of them had been partially covered in a crystalline form that shrouded their bodies and left them as hulking masses of geological and biological absurdity. Where bullets somehow managed to penetrate, he could just barely make out human flesh and blood. It was thoroughly unsettling to see people converted into such abominations, but he would have to investigate that later.

Crystals grafted onto human bodies. It was an image he didn't like.

Moving on, he stepped over the broken arch of the entrance and heard what sounded like a struggle. Or someone dying slowly and painfully. It was hard to be sure. Silently moving, Morgan made his way across the dust-encrusted floor and towards another destroyed doorway.

Crouched down, Morgan spotted what he could only assume was the last surviving member of the security team. The sheer destruction that apparently went on around him wasn't very pretty, and neither was his shape either. The man was obviously close to death, just barely hanging on to the thread of life with whatever energy he had left from the beating he received before Morgan arrived. While the blood obscured a good amount of the damage from this distance, the agent could see the damage to the Kevlar vest. Considering there wasn't much more than the straps, it was quite telling. The massive tear through the security officer's chest was the most noticeable, however. It was definitely a fatal wound.

Quickly checking his surroundings, Morgan made the decision to check on the survivor and see what he could tell him. It was perhaps a bit pessimistic to assume the other man was going to die very soon, but losing any information he could get would severely hamper his ability to protect any others.

Of course, protection of himself might have been a better objective, all things considered. That point was effectively hammered home when, interestingly enough, a bullet was hammered into his chest.

The first staggered him, but his own vest held strong. The second and third floored him, though. It was apparently a high enough caliber to do that, it seemed.

"Oh _fuck_! OH _FUCK_!"

The blow to the head from hitting the linoleum was hardly enough to daze Morgan, but it probably wasn't wise to get up when someone assumed they just killed you.

"I-I just-" There was a slam against the wall the other man was splayed out against, likely from him. "Fuck! I killed a _person_!"

Whatever emotion possessed the security officer at the moment could have been anything, really. Perhaps it was grief, or regret, or even fear. Morgan didn't care much. He just didn't to be shot again.

Both carefully and slowly, Morgan sat up. His eyes met those of his assailant, albeit briefly. Still, he could see the strange cocktail of emotions in them. Warily, the agent got back onto his feet, much to the surprise of the man opposite of him.

"No, you didn't," Morgan provided, hoping that it would calm the obviously tense situation. "You're a pretty good shot though, even if your arm is torn up. I'm going to walk up to you, alright? I'd prefer it if you didn't shoot me again."

The officer didn't respond. If the hanging jaw was any indication, he might have simply been shocked to the point of being at a loss for words. It was, after all, not every day when you're left for dead, accidentally shoot at a person multiple times, and then see said person get up without much malice in their voice. It was an off-day, to be sure.

Morgan slowly approached, ignoring the fact that disbelieving eyes were plastered on him at the moment. He assessed the damage done to the security officer, whose face could now be seen with a bit more clarity. Tearing off a piece of his polo shirt, the agent gently swabbed away the excess blood. While the man's skin wasn't dark or light enough to make a proper assumption on his ethnicity, the ID tag on his hip at least provided "Dominguez" a general idea of where he might be from.

Dominguez winced, not enjoying the cloth rubbing against fresh wounds. "You work here?" he croaked.

The bureaucrat glanced back to make sure nothing was currently creeping up on them, "No. I'm with the government though. I was sent to check up on this place because either messages weren't getting through or something happened." He whistled at the current state of the building, "And something definitely happened…"

He heard a weak bark of laughter in response, "Shit… You could say that, man… Buncha freaks made out of rock attacked us." Dominguez's face went thoughtful, as if the impact of what had happened was just suddenly hitting him. "… Am I the last one left?"

As much as Morgan didn't want to answer that, he felt obligated to. Mincing words wasn't appropriate at a time like this.

"Yeah." He exhaled through his nose, trying to think of what to do next.

The sheer absurdity of the situation did nothing to dampen what resulted from it. Several people, somewhere between half a dozen and a dozen, were not only dead, but in pieces. Only one was left alive, and that was being charitable. Of course, Morgan had no intention of leaving the man behind whatsoever, but would be able to live long enough to receive medical attention? That was assuming there was even any medical staff currently alive within the facility. Saying the situation was delicate would be putting it mildly.

It probably wouldn't be safe to carry him to the entrance, and less so to just leave him here. Whatever attacked could still be lurking around, waiting to strike them down.

Morgan hummed to himself, finger once again curled near his mouth in contemplation, "Where's the entrance into this place? Did they get in?"

"Nah, we locked ourselves out. Door's a foot thick too… I can't tell you where it is, man. I don't even know who you are," he replied. Dominguez was clinging to conversation, using it to keep himself from falling unconscious. It was an admirable effort.

"Well, I can't let you die here." Morgan's adamant tone seemed to stir some life into the dying man. At least, that's what it looked like to him. "Besides, I can get into facility. I have clearance. I just don't know where the door is."

It was true, but Dominguez could barely make out what was even going on at this point. It was hard to remain lucid, but as the gears slowly started turning in his head, he sighed in defeat. A proud man like him didn't want to admit it, but the only thing he had left to lose was his life, and he was already on the brink of death at the moment. There was no point in giving up when he managed to get this far, much farther than his associates outside. Worst case scenario, everything would go dark and he would be absolved of his responsibilities. Best case scenario, he would live long enough to deliver his boot up the ass of whatever caused this disaster.

Oh, how he would relish that moment with fervor.

"Al-Alright… Help me up, man."

Morgan took Dominguez's right arm, which thankfully suffered less damage than he suspected, and slung it over his shoulder. Grabbing onto the other man's belt, the agent hoisted him up onto his feet. The security officer was gasping in pain, which was a bit gentler on the ears than the scream he wanted to let loose. Dominguez's arm raked across a compartment on his belt with all of the grace of the near-dead, before Morgan propped him against the wall and rooted through it himself.

"Hmm. Percocets?" he muttered, turning the plastic bottle in his hands.

"Hhhh-Heavier than that…"

They were painkillers, obviously, though Morgan had to wonder if they were even meant for human consumption.

Of course, that had never stopped _him_ before, so why extend someone else's pain over something as petty as ethical medicine use? Taking two out, he handed them to Dominguez. Unfortunately, bloodless had parched him, and it took another precious minute for Morgan to find a half-finished bottle of partially evaporated water. Needless to say, both were disgusting. Being on the precipice of death tended to invalidate that, though.

Bracing himself, Dominguez leaned back onto Morgan, pointing towards a gap in the wall that led outside, "The place is on lockdown. No way we'd get inside through the front." He winced and let his hand drop, "Shit… There's a maintenance entrance that I have access to. We-"

"Will go there right now." Morgan tried to give a reassuring smile, though it felt somewhat awkward to do to someone he didn't even know. "We'll get you patched up soon."

And so they walked, moving around all the debris and destruction of the facility's topside façade. It was surprisingly quiet, and definitely disturbing. It made sense, considering what had happened not very long ago. As they walked, Morgan found himself thinking more about the attack.

He had seen something like these abominations nearly a decade back, but they were mindless and uncoordinated. Yet, here they were, their corpses having once participated in an organized attack on a heavily defended research outpost in the middle of nowhere. Sure, mashed together crystallization made for a feasible defense against bullets, but these things still had several human body parts visible in varying locations. Weak-spots, obviously. Anyone trained to use a weapon against another living being would be able to notice that. These things had managed to still tear through the security forces even with that against them.

It was intriguing. He would have to find the main security office and watch the tapes to see what really went on.

"There!"

Morgan snapped to attention, looking to where the security officer pointed at. It wasn't exactly what he'd consider a "maintenance entrance", but it was still a way in. Getting through the steel doors that were probably over a foot thick was a bit of hindrance, however. Thankfully, Dominguez had a swipe-card ready. Strangely enough, he only needed to hold it to the door to get it open, which it did the thoroughly annoying screech. Both men patiently waited as the steel door opened. It was enough time to give Morgan a chance to glance around at the area around them.

There was something peculiar not far from them. Raising a brow, the agent nodded his head towards it, "What's that?"

It was a mound of pink crystals that formed a ring around what seemed to be a hole. Morgan couldn't see how deep it was, but that seemed to be quite the security risk. How long had it been there? Did those creatures attack from there?

"Old mineshaft," Dominguez provided helpfully despite his condition. "Shit is _old_-_old ._ From way back in the day."

Morgan frowned, "What kind of rocks are those?"

Not bothering to hide the anxiety in his voice, Dominguez exhaled loudly, "Man, I – Fuck, they thought they were diamonds or some stupid shit like that. Some egghead here said it was something called rose-"

The man was abruptly cut off by a scream. They both turned their heads back to the doorway, which was now open and bringing light into a very dim room. Inside that room, Morgan could barely make out the figure of a woman cowering against a group of crates. There was a smell wafting in the air, and the agent grew a bit disgusted at the sight of her pants darkening slightly. He couldn't really blame her. It was likely that she could even see them properly due to the brightness behind them. Shadowy figures looming over you could be frightening things to anyone.

Before he could calm the woman down, the ground shook. It was brief, almost as if something heavy had just crashed against the ground nearby, but it was enough to get Morgan to brace himself against the door frame. Steadying Dominguez wasn't as easy, and he nearly collapsed as a result. Morgan was somewhat surprised when the wounded man managed to steady himself.

There was a roar, and then stomping. It was very close, and getting even closer.

"Shit!" the agent cursed, suddenly realizing how vulnerable they were out in the open. "Go!"

He shoved Dominguez inside, more concerned with them actually surviving than the pain his new ally would be feeling from the fall. By some miracle, the security officer fell to the ground just in time to avoid being hit by the concrete equivalent of a shotgun blast.

Morgan didn't have to react as the wall near him burst outwards, sending large chunks of it straight at him. Careening at him at high speeds, they collided against his body.

It had happened so fast, it seemed as if it didn't happen at all. The only reason he knew that what had just occurred wasn't some hallucination was the fact that he was now staring at a beautiful sky. Which meant he was on his back.

And completely vulnerable.

The maintenance door seemed to seal itself as he forced himself onto his feet. Some of his bones were fractured, and his body cried for him to retreat. But he was still capable of fighting, even if it was obvious to anyone that looked at the man that he was quite injured. Granted, most people would have died from the impacts that he had just suffered, so he was in fact quite lucky. Morgan may not have felt like it, but at least this experience would be another notch under his belt.

Implying he survived, that is.

Shaking away the daze, Morgan squinted at the dust cloud that had lazily occupied the gap in the nearby wall. He could barely make out the imposing figure standing there silently, apparently waiting for him to make the first move.

Morgan obliged. His SIG Sauer was in his hands and trained at his attacked. It snorted, possibly in amusement, clearing away a significant portion of the dust with just that release of breath.

What the agent saw brought a certain degree of dread to him. It was one of the crystalline creatures, though comparing it to the others wouldn't exactly be describing it accurately. Whereas the others were more or less the size of humans, this stood several feet taller than the already six-foot-tall man. Unlike the others, its entire greyish body was completely covered by the strange rocks. Where the face should have been, there were several holes. Through two, he could see the most unsettling pair of eyes he had ever stared back at.

Morgan wasn't a psychiatrist. He didn't know the intricate nuances of the human psyche at the level a professional would. That didn't mean he couldn't see the manic look in the eyes of his enemy, the same look of a man ready to indulge in a reckless frenzy. Such a person was dangerous. When applied to some goliath-like monstrosity? It was usually a sign to bow-out.

But Morgan wasn't about to run away and possibly endanger others, simply because he didn't have the nerve to stand his ground. Dominguez and the female scientist behind that now-closed door would be nothing more than a red paste should this thing break through.

So he did the only thing he could do in spite of his injuries. He distracted it.

Stepping backwards, Morgan forced his aim to steady. The multiple broken bones made that difficult, but if he was still standing, then that meant he could at least try to hold out. As if sensing his stubbornness, the crystallite snorted once more and moved forward. Its long, bulky arms trailed against the ground, digging deep lines through the dirt.

Morgan took aim at a leg and fired a few rounds to test the waters. As he suspected, it wasn't fazed in the least, to the point where it lifted its head and gave a throaty chuckle. The agent continued testing different areas, trying to give the creature a sense of confidence that he was easy prey. That would make it easier to capitalize on any mistakes it might make.

One such mistake happened earlier than Morgan anticipated. The crystallite leaned down on all fours and glared at him. Morgan was going to be rushed, and likely suffer a brutal impact. But that was exactly the position he wanted his enemy to be in.

Taking concentrated aim, Morgan emptied the rest of his clip at its face, specifically towards the right eye. In the ensuing moment, it was hard to tell how fast the creature reacted. As far as he could tell, at least on bullet managed to navigate through the narrow opening and cut into the soft flesh inside. The rest didn't seem to do much else. And yet, the effect was instantaneous.

It charged, bashing into him with the force of a speeding truck. The blow didn't simply send him reeling. Morgan was airborne for a good few seconds before he crashed against the ringed shaft. His back slamming against the rose-colored crystals sent him upwards again, right towards the hole. Morgan barely had time to register the fact he was no falling into seemingly endless pit before his body landed against several rusted pipes. Each gave way until he hit the next, before his head hit something particularly hard.

Unconsciousness took him as he continued to fall.

* * *

_Elsewhere…_

* * *

She felt flustered, quite honestly. What other feelings were there when all of your efforts were sabotaged at every turn? The green gem continued to mull over the meaning of the symbol she had found tacked onto one of the Earth warp-pads. It was absolutely mind-boggling. It was some unknown creature crying and holding its arms up in surrender.

It had to be a message. Someone knew she was tampering with the pads, trying to get them online at all costs. And they didn't like her interference.

Leaning back in her chair, she exhaled. She was a Peridot, usually considered _the_ Peridot. Most gems never got the distinguished honor of being considered the "_the_" in their series. It took a certain commitment and level of performance that showed she wasn't just another Peridot, she was willing to help the Homeworld conduct whatever business needed attending. It had taken well over four thousand years to reach this point.

And now, her efforts were being cut apart by some unknown force. It made no sense, however. Earth wasn't inhabited by any sentient species, and only a few Gems managed to escape the planet following some half-hearted insurrection a few millennia ago. There were no survivors on the rebel's side, she was sure, but what other explanation was there for the symbol?

Were they asking for her surrender? Even in light of these developments, she guffawed as such a notion. But whoever it was, they were still causing a significant amount of trouble for her. This wouldn't look good for her, not at all.

While Yellow Diamond was a reasonable Gem, with an understanding mentality, anyone that was near her for longer than a minute could see that she preferred things going as smoothly as possible, especially when it came to expansion.

Firstly, it was prohibited to colonize planets inhabited by sentient beings. It was both to appease the more compassionate Gems and prevent unnecessary problems from occurring. It wasn't feasible to conquer an entire species and then hope they wouldn't retaliate when their planet suffered around them. That was also the reason that zoologists were employed to move significant numbers of species off-planet before beginning any "mining." They were usually deposited on one of the sanctuary planets near Homeworld.

That train of thought brought up another.

She hadn't considered it until now, but an incident a decade or so back could have been related to her current situation. A Gem ship, looking as though it was hobbled together, crashed into one of said planets.

No one knew what was going on, but the keeper of the particular wildlife sanctuary, Green Diamond, was dead. The planet followed suit, along with all of the inhabitants. The ship had apparently once belonged to a research Gem named Calcite. It was assumed that prolonged isolation on Earth had caused a complete breakdown of her psyche, and that her attempt to return home was some crazed scheme that lead to the murder of one of the most well-liked Gems to ever grace Homeworld.

Following that, Peridot was given orders to send some roboniods to the ship, repairing it for the murderer. If Calcite had gone to those lengths to return home, then it was assumed that she would willingly come. Ultimately, the ship fled back to Earth. The current expedition was both to restart the functions of the Kindergarten and bring Calcite to justice for what she had done.

Calcite was assumed to still be alive. That was the most likely scenario, she figured. It made sense, considering someone had to pilot the ship back to Earth. Perhaps the one tampering with the warp-pads was the gem in question, or maybe a lackey. Peridot, like the rest of Homeworld, was largely in the dark about the situation. For all she knew, Calcite could have restarted the Kindergarten herself and created an army in the meantime. Peridot couldn't be certain.

That was also one of the reasons why Yellow Diamond insisted on a bodyguard accompanying her. Peridot admired Jasper, in certain ways. Underneath that attitude lied cleverness and guile. Being a grizzled veteran of quite a number of conflicts had made Jasper just as distinguished as she was. She wasn't all that worried about her safety with that Gem around. There was a comradery between them, however hidden. Hopefully they could develop their friendship further en route to Earth.

Looking back at the sticky marking that taunted her to no end, Peridot felt reassured that it wasn't going to be her that was going to be surrendering. They would crush Calcite, then resume operations. A simple plan.

"_Peridot. We have a development_."

The green Gem flinched, caught off-guard by the sudden voice. It was Yellow Diamond.

"What happened?" she replied, feeling uneasy. A "development" usually wasn't something good.

"_You'll want to see this_." Yellow Diamond's disembodied voice sounded concerned, if anything. "_It's a Gem from Earth. She calls herself Lapis Lazuli. Jasper is going to be interrogating her in a few minutes._"

Peridot had never heard of that type of Gem before, but nodded regardless, "I'll head to the headquarters now."

"_Good_._ Have you made any progress on Earth?_"

The green Gem clicked her tongue, displeased at the lack of information so far, "Not much. But I think we might have a problem on Earth. Something's been sabotaging the warps and my robonoids."

"_Hm. We'll discuss this more once you get here. Yellow Diamond out._"

And so the conversation ended. Peridot couldn't help but wonder about the visitor. Who was she? What exactly was the function of a Lapis Lazuli? Why did she return to the Homeworld after all this time? Was she just as insane as Calcite supposedly was?

Hopefully, she would figure out soon enough and be able to piece together a coherent idea of what was really going on. Peridot was sure Jasper would be able to extract the information from the Lapis, just as sure as she was in her ability to protect her during their voyage to Earth.

Things would go smoothly, it looked like. Sure, some unexpected variables cropping up might throw them off a little, but the Authority was both experienced and resourceful. There was nothing to be worried about.

* * *

**A/N:** I probably should have finished this weeks ago. It was sitting on my laptop for a while and I finally got off my ass and wrote the rest.

The more I write for this story, the more I realize that it's pretty damn hard to stick to canon, have a character that's doing his thing alongside this canon and sticking to the source material as much as possible. I really don't want to make a stupid mistake or oversight that'll break the flow of the story away from the actual show. That wouldn't be really good.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Until next time.


	5. Chapter 5

**A National Affair**

**Chapter 5: Bill Dewey's Not-So-Wild Day  
**

* * *

Bill Dewey was a man who truly understood the amount of chaos that existed in this world. He knew of the constant dangers that threatened his dear Beach City, and most importantly, he knew the most he could do was try to assure the voters that things were under control.

More often than not, the situation tended not to be. It was one of the many drawbacks to being a citizen of such an isolationist state. Delmarva was never very keen on the federal government interfering in their affairs, and though this mindset was always impressed on him by other government officials, Bill found it hard to adopt those ideals. What was the point of _having_ a larger body of government if you wanted nothing from it and nothing to do with it?

Early in his career, he somehow managed to get elected, relatively unnoticed by Delmarva's legislature. Following a nearly disastrous storm that threatened to cripple the city entirely, the freshly inaugurated Mayor Dewey attempted to procure funding from Washington D.C., in hopes that they'd provide some form of relief to help speed up recovery.

A savage beating and the disappearance of his wife was the ultimate result of that attempt. While he still had his son, he had been left hollow. Politics, something he had constantly romanticized in his head, became something far more sinister. There was never any information on the status of his wife, and the thinly-veiled threats towards his only child were enough to keep him in line.

That was how he learned the lesson of never trying to overstep one's boundaries, as dictated by the higher-ups. You were liable to lose everything that way.

But over the course of the years, Bill Dewey, at the very least, began to at least find purpose again. His town needed somebody, anybody, to step into the crosshairs and be the mayor. He already had the experience, and the alarmist tendencies, to properly hold the office and keep everyone in the dark.

Delmarva was a beautiful gem in a rampantly defiled world, despite the extremely shady operations that the state conducted. Was it a massive conspiracy? Possibly. Perhaps the younger Bill Dewey would have looked into it, but this man that currently sat in his office knew better.

He knew there was no fighting a force so much more powerful than your own. Instead, he simply did his job.

And for the day, his job was done.

Inside of his office, the Mayor briefly glanced to his right. The sun was going down, meaning he had already stayed a good hour past his official obligations. It was hard to balance the immense amount of paperwork alongside schmoozing the public. Still, the workday had ended, and he felt a bit of regret at having kept his bodyguards waiting this long. They were posted at opposite corners at the wall opposite of him, flanking his office door. The two men were both dutiful and loyal, and likely would have been willing to stay as long as needed for him to finish his work.

But he wasn't about to do that to them. Standing, Bill reached for his coat and hung it over his arm. He dismissed them, assuring them that he would be fine until tomorrow morning. It had been a fairly placid week, with very little happening in the way of monsters attacking and gigantic sand pillars randomly rising from the beach.

After they had left, he slouched back into his swivel chair, letting his coat drop to the floor. Sighing loudly, Bill reached into the left-hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a small glass and a bottle of scotch. The man sat that for a full minute, staring at his desk while thinking about nothing in particular.

Almost surprising himself, he began to speak.

"Scotch on the rocks, please!"

He took on an incredulous look, shifting his voice to being a bit more feminine, "Are you crazy? You can't put ice in scotch!"

His voice went back to normal, "Of course I can! I'm Bill Dewey, future mayor of Beach City!"

Scoffing, he lifted the glass and pointed at it, "Well, Mister 'Future-Mayor-of-Beach-City', I know a thing or two about this stuff. Scotch on the rocks is a _sin_."

A sly expression appeared on his face, "Then call me a sinner, lady. But I might be tempted to change my ways in exchange for something."

"Oh?"

Bill stopped, staring at his own reflection on the sticky surface of his glass. The years were getting to him.

"Yeah," he answered himself slowly. "A fair deal. I'll stop drinking scotch with ice, if you go to dinner with me."

"You're out of your mind!"

He smiled softly and put down the glass. It was soon filled.

Sinking into his seat, the Mayor took a drink and replied. "Maybe, but can't you find it in your heart to help redeem a sinner?"

He laughed. It was meant to be her laugh, but could never match the real deal. The real thing wasn't melodic. It was harsh and biting, but he managed to crack through it and find the warmth hidden beneath it all.

Bill Dewey missed her terribly. But he still had a boy to look after and a town to run. Taking one last drink, he put the glass and the bottle away and locked the drawer.

As he was getting ready to truly leave, he spotted something peculiar lying in the "In" bin that he hadn't looked at yet. The town's seal reflected the little light left in the office. Sighing to himself, the Mayor sat back down and pulled the paper out.

It was a housing verification form. Such a thing was the byproduct of a by-law that wasn't very significant in any way. It would have been easier to get rid of the by-law, but Bill Dewey learned long ago that it was best to play with the cards you were dealt than try to ask the dealer for a different hand.

Skimming through it, the Mayor came to the names of both parties.

He knew Fryman quite well, and it was no surprise that he saw his name there. Those apartments of his were usually rented annually, but there were a few that never really had a consistent dweller. That aside, the second name caught his attention. M. Thayer? An unusual last name. By Delmarva standards, at least.

Mayor Dewey couldn't recall a time when he rejected any housing forms for whatever reason, though he found himself drawn to this case in particular. Four months' rent was already wired to Fryman, and in the standard currency of the United States. It was a bit over five thousand dollars, which translated to about eight thousand Delmarvan dollars. It was no paltry sum by any reasonable standard, and it made the Mayor all the more curious.

Who exactly was this outsider? He or she seemed to have some sway with the banking system over at the "Mainland". Further investigation revealed that this person was apparently a customer of a federal credit union in New York. "Federal Hall Credit Union." From what he could tell, it was well-connected enough to weave its way between official tariffs and taxes established by Delmarva to help promote its isolationist style.

Such a thing was surprising to hear. Bill Dewey didn't know how to feel about that sort of connection.

Nonetheless, he approved it. Money was money, after all, and more money put into the town was more money to fund local projects. Thankfully, the recently-passed, and mandatory, insurance pushed by the state tended to cover all of the costs of the disasters, so funds could be directed elsewhere.

Still, Bill felt somewhat unsatisfied. He wanted to know more about this person. Why was he or she here? Taking his seal-stamp, he pressed it down onto the paper and made a few copies at the nearby printer. The genuine one was put in the "Out" tray for sorting tomorrow, while he folded two copies and tucked them into his coat pocket. Finally ready to leave, he gathered his things, left, and locked the door behind himself.

Bill Dewey didn't quite like the dragged out process of letting the mail take care of important documents. While he normally wouldn't deliver them himself, he was hoping he could pry some information from Fryman about the newcomer. So, he made his way to the Beach Citywalk Fries, a small shack by the boardwalk that seemed to exclusively deal in potato-based products. Not that he knew, of course. The Mayor didn't have a taste for fried foods, so he never found a reason to order anything or go there other than to chat with one of the locals or promote his campaign.

However, as he rounded the corner to said establishment, Bill could hear a conversation already playing out. The sun was getting closer to the horizon, and his steps slowed somewhat. Two children ran off after a brief conversation with two adults at the shack. It was that one Universe kid, who was followed by trouble everywhere he went, and the younger Fryman. Peewee, he thought the name was. Greg Universe, also a local entrepreneur, and Fryman greeted him as he came within sight.

Flashing a smile, the Mayor pulled out one of the copies of the document and handed it over to Fryman, "Evening, fellas. Here's a copy of that housing form."

Fryman smiled back, "Thanks, Mayor! You work pretty quick."

Taking a moment to stroke his ego, Bill couldn't help but wholeheartedly agree. "Just a part of the job, fellas. I'm just doing my part to serve the fair people of Beach City."

"I was actually just talking to Greg about this guy." Fryman tucked the paper into his back pocket. "Weird coincidence, huh?"

So, it was a man. He knew that much now.

"Oh? Is he at his apartment now?"

Fryman shrugged, "I don't think so, Mayor. I saw him around the library earlier today, but Ronaldo says he went east out of town." His expression fell flat. "I still need to talk to him about that. Ronaldo busted into the house with a bunch of maps, saying Morgan was a government spy or agent or something."

Greg didn't look too surprised, "Kids'll be kids."

Mayor Dewey didn't quite understand what any of that was about, but mentally pocketed the part regarding spies and such. He was more than a bit surprised when that one Fryman kid had nearly cracked the conspiracy regarding the Authority, amongst other things. It was something to look into at a later time.

The Mayor checked his watch briefly, with Greg noticing and commenting. "Yeah, I should probably head back to the Wash. It's getting late." He waved and turned towards the business in question. There was a short pause in his stride as realization hit him, "You know, I think I left the hoses on. That's not good." The man hurried off as Fryman began closing down the shack.

Dewey made small conversation until he decided it was time to get back home. Giving his goodbyes, he walked towards it with the second copy in hand. He had intended to deliver it personally, but it was going to get darker soon. It wasn't as if the confirmation was really necessary for a person to live anywhere, so he had time. Two weeks in fact, due to a law protecting renters for at least that long before they received approval.

Enough of that, though. He wasn't at work. All Bill wanted to do was go home, have some dinner his son, and just watch some TV until he fell asleep. There wasn't time for anything else.

It was harder to stick to that than he assumed it would be, however. As a small, grey robot waited for a car to pass before it crossed the street onto his side. Despite how often he had seen strange sights, this was entirely new. The robot seemed to ignore him entirely, casually moving past him and into a grate next to a building. It disappeared from sight, though he could still hear it moving around down there in the sewer.

Mayor Dewey opened his mouth, then closed it. He was going to say something, but what it that was forgotten almost immediately. The man remained tight-lipped until he got home, where a pent-up sigh found its release. It was probably for the best that he forgot what he saw and simply went continued his day as normal.

Of course, he wasn't fooling anyone, especially not himself.

There never was much of a "normal" day in Beach City. But of course, there was still plenty of work to do. Before heading into the kitchen, where the smell of pizza and seafood likely originated from, Bill set down his briefcase and coat in his study.

Taking out a bottle of scotch and a clean glass, he poured himself just a little bit. For a brief moment, he wondered if it was obvious during his short-lived conversation with Universe and Fryman that he was a bit hazy in the head. They didn't seem like the attentive sort, so he dismissed that worry. Still, he found himself staring at the glass.

In the other room, his son was talking on the phone, barely audible through what was probably a slice of pizza. Exhaling loudly, Bill took the glass and dumped its contents in the nearby potted fern. He set the glass down and opened the door, ready to go meet his son at the dinner table. Maybe some time together could calm his nerves a bit.

But as he exited, he wondered something comparably tame to all the other thoughts on his mind at the moment.

Can alcohol kill plants?

He thought on that, not realizing he was merely distracting himself from all the other concerns he had to address.

* * *

**A/N:** Small chapter to break up the flow a bit, drop some hints, provide backstory, etc.. I always liked Mayor Dewey as a character. Seems like a decent guy once you get past the fact he loses his shit pretty quickly and doesn't seem like he has a strong tolerance to weird things happening.

Anyway, next chapter is going to be more exciting. I'll talk about that a bit, and then the feel I'm going for in this story.

Next chapter, not to spoil anything too important I hope, will have all the good stuff you wouldn't want to associate with _Steven Universe_. By that, I mean some death, darker themes, minor gore, etc.. When I was thinking about writing this story, I was wondering what it would be like to apply real world casualness in comparison to the almost idyllic overtones of the show. There's obviously a bunch of underlying things that show that not everything is all rosy (the Cluster, for example), but I wanted to extend that a bit.

So I thought, why not insert someone into that world who's fairly casual about that sort of stuff? Clearly an experienced, traveled and tough person who doesn't mind the insane amount of danger in the world (and responds similarly), would clash a bit with the general tone of the show, right? I assumed that, I guess. So I set up some history about what happened, where, and why in regards to Delmarva. The bastard child of the American Civil War. There's going to be a lot of focus on that in later chapters.

The general feel I'm going for is that there's a lot going on in the background of the show that isn't shown. Who knows if canon will ever cover that, but I thought I'd give a try and elaborate on that.

I was going to say more, but I gave up trying to finish these notes. Way too long. Hope you liked the chapter, etc..

Until next time.

P.S.: I realized that towards the end of last chapter, I wrote "clip" instead of "magazine". Unforgivable.


End file.
